Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476494" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Autumn Swings Its Bell</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Autumn swings its bell like an eyelid over my heart <br>	and in the penumbral umbrellas that bloom <br>		in a garden of eclipses and sundials, <br>I discuss you with an enlightened ghost <br>	and an ignorant shadow<br>		that have learned to see star to star<br>in this echoless abyss of silence and solitude. <br>	Within, where the winds scrawl <br>		their spray bombs on the wall, <br>delighted with their literary delinquency, <br>	I realize what's beginning to look like <br>		the mouthless howl of an ancient agony, <br>the collapsed bridge <br>	of that which was separated<br>		from the moon's reflection, <br>an ache deep in the ores of the earth<br>	before it learned to speak of trees and rivers, <br>		before its longing invested the dead branch<br>with a fugue of nightbirds <br>	trying to write themselves like a dream <br>		into the black candle of the darkness <br>with a feather of fire. <br>	My heart is hollow, and empty, <br>		a drunk in an oildrum, <br>and love seems nothing more <br>	than a harvest of eyelashes <br>		and all my works are seeds on the moon. <br>A kite crash lands in the powerlines. <br>	A phoenix rises from its dearth of ashes.<br>		I want to go deeper into myself, <br>I don't want to hover like smoke <br>	over my sidereal cremations, <br>		or atomize the particulars <br>of how time bends like the arms <br>	of my galactic alarm clocks, <br>		or if I deserve to be this lonely, <br>a lighthouse that went on shining underwater<br>	after the last flood carried me out to sea.<br>		You make things happen in me, <br>thinking of you, your lapidary tides, <br>	blue species of emotion <br>		are born, evolve, and die <br>for reasons unknown <br>	in the space between two thoughts; <br>		and there are crazy black spiders in the wine <br>that tempt me to swallow them <br>	to know how things are connected, <br>		and always an electric dawn <br>to dazzle the event with black holes <br>	and blind, astronomical photographers. <br>		I feel the tenderness of time and distance from you, <br>fountains that no one drinks from, <br>	and space all the jewels and palaces of water <br>		that no one owns or lives in <br>because they are reserved for your progress alone<br>	through these wounded labyrinths of me <br>		following the stars I've laced <br>in the wake of living your way free of the maze<br>	that will prove to be <br>		the foundation of another kind of temple, <br>the cornerstone of a vastly more intimate space <br>	than the eclipse that encloses you now <br>		in the bleeding flames of an endangered poppy. <br>I wish I were wise, I wish <br>	I were young and becoming, <br>		I wish I could engender a planet <br>out of this cosmic debris<br>	I spew like a supernova across the night, <br>		the exhalation of my spirit from the lamp I go by, <br>the arraying of the world in every breath. <br>	I wish I were good and always cooling <br>		on a farmhouse windowsill; <br>I wish I was not so tormented<br>	by the torn skies that hang from the broken window<br>		I hurled my heart through like a stone with a message.<br>I wish my enlightenment <br>	didn't knock on every door of delusion <br>		hoping to find no one home.<br>I place the cool kiss of a nocturnal snail on your skin, <br>	and I look at the words and I wonder <br>		if you'll wake with a silver smear on your breast<br>like the path of the moon on water<br>and know it was me<br>		or feel the tremor of a forbidden ecstasy in your sleep <br>I burn a church to the ground like a ram <br>to honour the altar of your talent, <br>the passion, pulse, and fire-voice of your poetry <br>and the midnight shadows of your blue rose<br>shedding its eyelids like petals, skin and sky.<br>		My words are metal birds, rocks <br>wishing for wings<br>so that this avalanche of mountain thunder <br>		might once take flight in the dusk <br>toward the valley where you wander like a stream <br>turning over lost echoes<br>	like the links of a chain with a key, <br>zeroes looping arms with the past <br>	to bind one moment of the infinite <br>		to the wonder of a passion that lasts. <br>My eyes are heavier <br>	for having seen the light, <br>		saturated with everything they've witnessed, <br>honey, ink, and blood, <br>	and every tear is a sea closer to the moon, <br>		and every lyrical efflorescence of the dream <br>is punctured by thorns, <br>	and even the lies of the most subtle mirrors <br>		have grown obvious <br>as the beast within is saddened <br>	by its cultivated charm, <br>		knowing what hour it is. <br>Understand me well <br>	in this rogue season of awareness; <br>		where lightning freezes in the flower-realms <br>and breaks like branches of ice, <br>	where even black is too garish for clarity, <br>		and sometimes even the sea <br>loses its nerve, <br>	gaping into its own depths, <br>		an asylum of lightless shapeshifters <br>for a likeness of itself<br>	that isn't perfectly preserved, <br>		the locket-heart of the last fish on the moon, <br>a Martian meteor in Antarctica, <br>	this gravel walk of asteroids<br>		through the gates and the gardens <br>of the whole planet I am in every piece, <br>	though I do not glow like fool's gold <br>		in the pan of the night, <br>and my throne has crumbled like hard bread, <br>	and love seems to die at the first affirmation <br>		like a bird against a late night windowpane, <br>this goblet of darkness<br>	that stains the lips with an indelible silence; <br>		though I have been deconstructed <br>by the suspicious sphericity<br>	of my most cherished symmetries, <br>		toppled like a tower of blood and water, <br>a shattered river <br>	condemned to the beginning of spring, <br>		a continent sunk in the depths of the mirror<br>barring this handful of nuggets and islands, <br>	I am still immutable diamond <br>		that learned its flowing from the stars, <br>and what I write to you <br>	is not a thread of light <br>		that holds the kite of your heart <br>up to the lightning like a key<br>	to prove that your blood is a good conductor, <br>		not the severed fishing line necklace of eyes <br>scattered like beads and dice<br>	across the usual geometries<br>and impoverished granaries of the floor, <br>not the afterbirth of a morphological wine<br>	that left you burnt orchards <br>		as the fruits of the fire that promised <br>a feast of pears and cherries, <br>	not the disembodied jewels of a ghost <br>		weeping in the doorway of its skull in the night, <br>but the threshold and theme, <br>	though for the moment you disdain the stairwells <br>		in the hovels and mansions of love, <br>embittered by the lonely rose of space and matter <br>	that pours the shining out the backdoor <br>		like the lees of harvest stars<br>in the corner of the eye of an irisless bell<br>	waking you up mutely <br>		from a dream of falling in a morgue, <br>but the threshold and theme, <br>	the story-line, the mythogem and motif, <br>		the oceanic pulse and spume <br>of sidereal ferocities and urgent follies<br>	robed like the king of shells <br>		in the bruised purple of symbols<br>I take like the pulse of a lightning-rod<br>	rooted like blood in me<br>		to know as constantly as space <br>that I draw my life from you<br>	like a shadow in a garden of blue fire <br>		that courses through the dried creek beds<br>of these hourglass deserts <br>	like the mystic tents <br>of a caravan of rain on the moon.<br>Wells, goblets, bells, or roses, <br>	or thorns gnawing through chains and lifelines<br>		to let the heart drift <br>like an empty boat from its moorings, <br>	whatever season you assume <br>		like the changing wardrobes<br>and unassailable affinities of a life <br>	you must improvise as you go along, <br>		I will always be with you <br>like shadows and leaves <br>	and footprints and stars, <br>		as I am now your next breath <br>whatever the scarves of fire <br>	that grace your ghost-dance<br>		with the black ribbons of an abysmal freedom<br>that feels like the halls of an abandoned prison.<br>	I will liberate the key <br>		like a hanged man <br>from the noose that adorns your neck, <br>	and raise myself like a bell to your lips <br>		and have you drink<br>the light and stars and flowers again <br>	from the urn, the crown, <br>the hive of the heart<br>that sends its eyes out into a far field like bees <br>	on the perfume trail of a summer constellation <br>		to sweeten the light around you<br>with honey that burns for an emergent queen to find it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476494" data-title="Autumn Swings Its Bell de Patrick White" data-description="Autumn swings its bell like an eyelid over my heart 
	and in the penumbral umbrellas that bloom 
		in a garden of eclipses and sundials, 
I discuss you with an enlightened ghost 
	and an ignorant shadow
		that have learned to see star to star
in t..."></div>
</div>
</div>